


Facts

by Flameysaur



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fenris POV, Rape Mentions, Slice of Life, death mentions, fenhawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5248550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flameysaur/pseuds/Flameysaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting back together, Fenris and Hawke need to learn a few facts about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fact #1: Fenris Hates Being Touched

She was the one who brought it up. He never would have thought about it. Touching was a fact of life with Hawke and her friends. She touched as if everyone was drowning and she was the life line. Hugs from behind for the abomination, holding hands with the dwarf, an arm around the waist of the pirate as they sang off key at the Hanged Man. The blood mage got hugs for pointing out the color of the sky and when her brother had been around, it was impossible to get Hawke off of him. Only Sebastian got less touches and that was because the holy prince requested it “for the ease of my vows.” Hawke had laughed, and reduced herself to sisterly noogies, or rough grapples.

Fenris had not been exempt. Trailing fingertips up the arm, dancing over his markings so she touched only skin and never lyrium. A brush of lips against his ear when she leaned in close to whisper something he could have heard from a distance. Arms—so much stronger than a mage’s arms should be—holding him tight as they eased around the cliffs at the Wounded Coast. Her laugh surrounding him, a ringing, rolling sound that felt like it could block out the whole world.

Then the first night. Hands, rough from her staff, didn’t skip over lyrium then. They ran over him, hard and possessive, eager to touch every inch. Lips trailed down his neck, his shoulders, his chest, and lower. A tongue followed the trail of lyrium and made him groan. He shuddered and sank unarmored fingers into her hair. He had been helpless and giving and she grinned up at him, a wicked demon. And he heard his voice.

 _That was very good, Fenris. You have pleased me_.

When she cried out, her voice was so much higher, sweeter, but she clutched at him like she could own him if she just got him deep enough. When he fell back, he’d already resolved to run, before his memories returned for just that moment.

She hadn’t stopped him.

It was a week after the miracle, after Hawke took him back and the world might have some goodness after all. She invited him over for a reading lesson, but her eyes held concern. They watched as he ran a finger under the line in the book, words swarming in front of his eyes. Hawke only had books in the common tongue, and he couldn’t read Tevene anyway, but it was another step in reading. Hawke leaned over, her scent in his nose, body warm near his. They wore their armor, and it made it easier, metal touching metal rather than flesh.

“Fenris?” Her breath warmed his ear, but she didn’t touch.

“Yes, Hawke?”

“Do you like this?” Hesitation never sounded right on Hawke. Doubt and shyness fell like rain over a wildfire on her face. Her arm snaked around his waist and she pulled him across his chair. His body hit hers and he didn’t know what hurt more, the pressure against his markings or the slap of memories.

He jerked back without a thought, and Hawke didn’t fight it.

“No.” The word was a battle to get out, but he owed Hawke the truth. He owed Hawke everything.

“Okay.” She leaned over the book like it was a casual thing to hate being touched by your lover. “What do you like?” she asked the book.

“It’s...never come up.”

She glanced up now, eyes sharp and piercing. Hawke touched everyone. But she stopped touching him after that night. He’d see her hesitate. Her pale hand reaching out then stopping before contact was made. Fingers twitching and falling back to her side. Smiles that didn’t reach her eyes.

“It’s going to come up now.” She reached now and fingers halted a breath from his hair. “You decide.” And she smiled, like it was that easy. “I’ll reach for you, and you decide what happens next, okay?”

Fenris looked at her. Hawke who smiled. Hawke who laughed. Hawke who was always there. He leaned his head against her hand and her smile widened.

He didn’t deserve this.


	2. Fact #2: Varric Isn't Going Away

Hawke and Varric. Varric and Hawke. The two were inseparable. Nights at the Hanged Man. Battle plans discussed for the fictional wars Hawke waged in Varric’s tales. Talks about everything and nothing as they headed out to do some fool errand. And the Hightown events. Varric and Hawke were the only ones who went to the fancy Hightown parties. Sebastian may be a Prince, but he had vows, and Hawke complained bitterly every time he used that to escape.

“I’ll take vows.” Hawke moaned, stretched out on the couch. Her head was in his lap. She had dropped into the couch like a thrown sack of potatoes but her head hesitated inches above his lap until he pressed her down gently. She always waited. At first, because he could, he’d sometimes push her away. If there had been a flash of disappointment across her face, or if she said anything, the old anger would come, but Hawke always smiled. She’d rearrange herself, and continue on. Like nothing ever happened. He stopped pushing her away soon after. The fact that he could was enough.

“You’d have to keep them, Hawke.” He trailed armor clad fingers through her hair, as gentle as he could. She puffed out her cheeks and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I’m going in armor.”

“Sounds perfect,” Varric said as he strolled in. “I’m bringing Bianca.” Bodhen never announced the other dwarf, and Varric never knocked. Fenris didn’t know when Hawke slipped him the key, maybe when she first got the place or after Leandra died. But the manor as as much home to Varric as his suite was to Hawke. Fenris was home nowhere.

Hawke scrambled up from Fenris lap and met Varric with a rolling laugh. The dwarf’s sturdy arms lifted Hawke into the air. Hawke squealed like a child and Varric spun around on his heels. It had been hours since they’ve seen each other.

“After all, knowing you, the Qunari will attack again.” Varric kept Hawke aloft, her sitting in his arms as comfortable as a chair.

“Please, do not raise my hopes.” Hawke snorted, but her palm rubbed over her breast. Ice dripped into Fenris veins as he remembered the large, two handed sword, not unlike his own, skewing through Hawke’s chest. The abomination rushing forward, ripping off Hawke’s clothes. Eyes flashing Justice bright as he poured magic into Hawke.

She breathed. It was enough. Or so Fenris told himself.

“You’re going to the party too?” Fenris asked.

“Don’t brood, elf.” Varric set Hawke down, his grin far too knowing. “Have to go. Merchant guild business. Plus, who else will keep our fine Lady Hawke company? I could get you an invitation.”

“No.” Fenris stood, grabbing his sword and sheathing it over his back. He was an ex-slave elf living in a stolen mansion. The daggers of polite society would attack Hawke far more readily than a bandit’s or slaver’s.

Besides, he swore to himself, never again would he walk among nobility at the beck and call of some mage. Even Hawke.

She watched him, with an unreadable expression on her face. Disappointment? Relief? Understanding?

“I will see you tomorrow.” He walked to her.

He didn’t have to hesitate. Hawke wasn’t some fragile thing like himself. His claws weren’t soft as they dragged through her hair. He dragged her to his lips and savaged her. He used his teeth and tongue as a brand. Something deeper than a ring, or even a collar. When he pulled back, her eyes were glazed. Fenris smirked.

He reached the door before Varric spoke.

“Was that for me?”

“If it was, I’m going to need for us to go to more parties.”

“Careful, Hawke, you’re drooling a little.”

Fenris smiled as he walked out into Kirkwall. Varric and Hawke. Hawke and Varric. But Fenris could kiss Hawke stupid.

There were worse skills to have.


	3. Fact #3: The Future Couldn't Be Avoided

They had a game night, at the Hanged Man, every week. Varric insisted that nothing interrupt it. During the dark times, it could be the only thing to get Hawke from her manor. There were rules to the game. Everything checked at the door. Fenris’ hate for mages. Anders’ hate for Templars. Aveline’s judgemental eye. Merrill’s distressing trust of demons. Sebastian’s faith. Isabela’s easy morals. Hawke’s...everything. It didn’t belong at the game.

“I can’t believe you.” Anders slammed down a losing hand and glared at Hawke. “I can’t believe you.”

“I’m not winning this round either, Anders.” Hawke didn’t look up from her cards, but the ice settling in her words killed the conversations like an assassin's knife.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Hawke sat sprawled in her chair, leaning her right shoulder against Varric. Once upon a time, Carver had sat there. Back when Hawke laughed higher, and she couldn’t stop moving. She had to slide lower in her chair to rest her head on Varric’s shoulder, but they all arranged themselves around Hawke, magnets to her.

Seconds ago, she had been sitting up. Her booted foot reaching under the table to shadow over Fenris’ bare foot. He’d just reached up with his toes, feeling the warmth of her leg, knowing it was his, when Anders spoke. And, as if a Templar stepped in the room, she draped across Varric and the whole table shifted. No one else, besides the dwarf, seemed to notice.

“Come on, Blondie. This is no place for politics.” Varric wore a comforting smile and reached for Anders.

“Politics?” Justice deepened Anders voice. He slapped the hand away. Light crackled across his skin. Still, Hawke kept her eyes on the cards. Fenris’ armored fingers tightened around his drink, half lifted to his lips.

“You call six captured mages politics? They’ll be made Tranquil for this!” Anders hands trembled as he stood. His magic buzzed in Fenris’ tattoos, cold and sharp, tasting of the Fade.

Hawke rearranged her cards, discarding one and moving two silvers into the pot.

“This is game night, handsome.” Isabela gave it her shot. She reached across the table and walked her fingers up his arm.  “Everything but the game is politics.”

Anders slapped her hand away, hard enough to crack bone against bone.  “Since when do you play by the rules? Any of you?” He swept his gaze over the silent table. Sebastian opened his mouth, real anger burning in his eyes but Hawke was faster. She was always faster when taking the blow.

“They were blood mages, Anders, and you knew it.” Her eyes flicked up from the cards for the first time. “Even Orsino admitted as such. Meredith was tipped off. If I got caught helping known blood mages then my good-will is out the window. Right now I’m a ‘good mage.’Do you want me to throw that away on blood mages? Sorry, Merrill.” Hawke reached over and plucked a card from the deck. She shifted her arm to keep in firm contact with Varric.

“No offense taken, Hawke.” Merrill mumbled to her cards.

“You trust Orsino over me?” Justice faded from Anders voice. It should have made the human appear smaller, but Anders loomed, and the hurt in his voice couldn’t mask the rage in his eyes. Fenris knew that anger. He’d seen it slaves before an uprising, in Qunari during a raid, in a lake when he desperately washed away Fog Warrior blood.

“Orsino knows his mages.”

“Of course.” Anders spat on the floor. “Hawke always sides with _elves_.”

“Mage!” Fenris jumped to his feet. His rage didn’t need time to bank. He reached for his sword. But, as always, Hawke was faster.

Cards went flying and two drinks clattered on the ground. Hawke dragged Anders bodily over the table. Silence hit the room like a spell, and all eyes turned. Hawke’s arms shook. Fenris markings buzzed with all the magic she didn’t use. It pushed against the Veil until Fenris stomach rolled. Merrill looked green. Aveline half stood up, but hesitated and looked to Hawke for orders.

Hawke said nothing. The room screamed with silence. Then Hawke laughed. Loud and barking and half the bar jumped from the noise. She dropped Anders, going around the table to dust off the robes and slap him on the back.

“Too many dower faces here. What everyone needs is a drink. Round on me!”

The cheer raised deafened Fenris but Anders shoved Hawke away. He straightened his robes and ducked out of the bar before anyone cared to stop him. Hawke watched him go but when Isabela wrapped her arm around Hawke's neck and Varric started on his stories, she joined with full fever. She bullied Aveline into singing and Sebastian into dancing. She and Merrill sang some old Fereldan song and anyone looking at her would see she was having a great time.

And she got roaring drunk for the first time since Leandra died.

“You better walk her home.” Varric pushed Hawke’s limp boned body towards Fenris. “It’s late, and she won’t be ready for the gangs.”

“Hawke could handle them.” But Fenris’ arms went around her. He pulled her tight to him. The markings on his side throbbed in protest, but the warmth of her skin soothed a deeper ache.

“Yeah, but she’s drunk enough to set fire to the city doing it.” Varric slapped Hawke’s back. “The elf is taking you home. Got it?”

“Carver’s job.” Hawke laughed. She always ended up on Carver when drunk. “Complained bitterly. Said my breath stunk.” She leaned closer to Fenris and breathed. Warm wet air caressed the tip of his ear. “Does it stink?”

“No, Hawke.”

They left the Hanged Man in awkward step. Lowtown sat empty before them, painted white by the full moons. Either no one wanted to test the Champion of Kirkwall, even in this state, or the air was too bitterly cold for criminals. The only sounds were the ever present roar of the ocean, the wind whistling through the buildings and their steps; a soft pit pat for Fenris, and a deeper thud for Hawke.

“Anders is getting more upset.” Hawke’s voice was low and almost sober. Fenris looked over, but she looked at the ground, face hidden in shadows. “I can’t remain like this for long.”

“Like what?”

“Neutral.”

Fenris said nothing. The wind whistled. The ocean roared. They walked.

“My father was the best mage I’d ever met.” Hawke said. They climbed the stairs out of Lowtown. “And he refused to take a stance on anything. He said he was a farmer. What happened in his dreams was his own business.” She stumbled on a step, nearly dragging them both down. In the clatter, he almost missed it. “I’m no farmer.”

“No.” Fenris shifted her weight, pulling her up and against him again. She tried to pull away but he held tighter. She relaxed after a second. Hawke was warm. It defined her, skin, smile, laugh, soul. In the bitter air, even the pain felt good. “You’re a sheppard. With a flock.”

She laughed. Sudden and sharp, like in the Hanged Man. Fenris hunched his shoulders, unsure what was so funny. But her arm lifted, hesitated at his waist. He took it and pushed it against him. She held on tight.

“Fenris?”

“Yes, Hawke?”

“What do you think will happen to us?”

He said nothing. Fenris never imagined any future. The last time he tried to make a plan, his sister sold him out to Danarius. The future was unknowable; an inky black threat. There was Then and there was Now.

Hawke was in Now.

Hawke wasn’t the solution Fenris had tried to pin on his sister. This thing that would sweep into his life and fix him. No longer a broken, dirty thing, created, used and dropped. But a person, like the dwarf or Aveline...or Hawke. People were whole things, with family and friends and a future. Slaves had Now. Fenris had...Fenris had Hawke. People did not have Hawke.

“I chose to stay with you. I cannot see wanting anything else.”

She slumped against him, a puppet without strings. He froze, and her feet tangled trying to stop with him, but her arm remained tight around him. She dropped her head on his shoulder, tears hot against the fabric there. She cried without noise, clinging to him.

“I can't lose more of my family,” she whispered.

“You won't lose me, Hawke.”

The promise hung empty in the air. She didn’t believe him. Fenris could feel it in how she shifted away. He held on tighter. He wasn’t people, but he would not let go of Hawke. That much he would control, he promised himself.

The world can’t have Hawke.


	4. Fact #4: Hawke Disappears Sometimes

The first time Hawke disappeared, it was a week before the Deep Roads. Varric had dragged Fenris to Gamlen’s shack and knocked the door. Carver had answered the door with a grunt and always glaring eyes, dismissing their concern.

“My sister likes to disappear sometimes. It’s not a big deal. She’ll be back.”

“What about the Templars?” Fenris had asked then. Because Hawke was a mage and he’d never forget that. Carver had shrugged.

“Then I guess you’ll have to break her out of the Circle. Not like my sister lacks in knights.” He’d closed the door, pissed off at some other imagined slight or so they thought at the time.

Hawke was gone now. He stopped by her mansion, but Bodhen said he hadn’t seen her since yesterday. He went to Varric, who looked around his shoulder as soon as he walked in, and Fenris knew she hadn’t been by there either. Just in case, they went together to the others, Isabela, Merrill, Anders, Aveline, even Sebastian. Hawke wasn’t there.

“I don’t understand. It’s not her siblings birthday.” Merrill frowned at her hands as the entire group stood in the entranceway of the Chantry.

“Nor her own,” Isabela said with concern darkening her eyes.

“Her mother died a month from now.” Anders rubbed his chin, glaring at the sky.

“Our Deep Roads expedition wasn’t until spring,” Varric said.

“And Bethany died in the summer. The heat made the darkspawn blood rot.” Aveline glared at the group in front of her. She had guards out, patrolling, but they’d never find Hawke.

Fenris looked at his hands, counting the days slowly in his head. He was bad with dates. What did a slave care for days? There was only hot and rainy in Tevinter, worse in Seheron. In Kirkwall, Hawke kept the time, appearing at his door with a smile and a job.

But he could count. He ticked off fingers as he moved back. Then he cursed, looking to the sky. Similar weather, yes.

“Her father.”

The whole group flinched. Eyes swung around to Aveline, who’d known Hawke the longest, but she gave a helpless shrug.

“He was dead before the Blight. Sickness, I suppose.”

“How do you know?” Sebastian asked. Fenris shrugged. Hawke shared details about herself in quick bursts. She’d launch into a story because of a random thought, full of details and facts. Then it’d be gone and she’d never mention another fact for weeks, or months at a time. Her father, in particular, was a rare topic. Malcolm Hawke mattered to Carver and as such, Hawke seemed to have given up on him, let Carver own him completely, even now.

“She mentioned it once, when I asked where she had been. She said it had been her father’s death and she needed to be alone.”

“Well, then, we know she’s not in danger.” Varric covered his relieved sigh with false cheer. “Come on, last thing we need are rumors started by Meredith and not me. Hup hup.” Varric hoisted Bianca onto his back. The group dispersed, listening to Varric in Hawke’s leave.

“Varric.” Fenris stepped to the dwarf’s side. Hawke’s groups dissipated the second Hawke wasn't there to bind them. She wouldn’t like that. She wanted them to be a family. But they weren’t. Anders dove into the shadows, as soon as he could, ducking out of sight of any Templars. Merrill walked straight home, utterly unaware of anyone. Isabela teased Aveline as they walked together for a ways before breaking off. And Sebastian merely returned to the Chantry. “Are you sure? She doesn’t need to be alone.”

“Hawke knows where we are, if she needs us.” Varric glanced up at him. “Unless you think you can find her.”

Fenris shifted his weight. He had a suspicion but he hesitated.

“She never turns you away.”

“You’re just not around when she does.” Varric patted his back, with more force than necessary and headed forward. “Do as you like, elf. It’s up to you.”

Fenris wanted to go home. No matter his concerns, there were old habits as ingrained in him as his markings. She wanted to be alone. He should obey her wants. He rubbed one arm and sighed. He walked from the Chantry.

Hawke grew up on farms. It was easy to forget, when she matched Varric’s easy city stroll step for step. But she went to the country when upset. She had asked Varric to buy a plot of land, a little after the Deep Roads.

“You can buy whatever you like, Hawke, but why this? It’s in the middle of nowhere. You can’t even see the sea.”

“I like how it smells.” She had propped up her chin, dreamy in the Hanged Man, but when Fenris walked from stone paths to soft grass, he understood.

Cities stunk, and Kirkwall perched on it’s own filth like a screaming toddler. What did not rot in the nose, was swept in from the sea, salt and water and waves. But this patch smelled of earth and grass. It sat in the middle ground between the farmlands that fed Kirkwall and the city proper itself. The stone path moved on, to the farms, but a mud path, with boot marks still fresh, lead to a small patch of dirt. It had a stone wall, half a human tall, circling it, and a sign hanging against the stone. Inside the wall was four simple headstones. And Hawke.

“I...don’t know what to say.” There wasn’t a door in the wall, but it reached up into an arch covered in flowering vines. There was a sign, simple with block letters even Fenris could read without struggle.

_ Champion of Kirkwall’s. Keep Out. Or Else. _ Fenris’ lips twitched and he looked at the space. It was clean, with no weeds in the ground and flowers in front of each of the grave.

“But I’m here.” He crouched next to Hawke, grass poking through his toes. She sat in front of a headstone, staring at it with dry but red rimmed eyes. She clutched her knees like a child hiding from a punishment but her face was unbearably old. He reached out slowly, hesitating for the first time. Hawke didn’t feel grief as he did, as a fire that died too quickly then unbreakable cold. It simmered in her until she was empty and scorched.

“It’s always sunny on this day.” She hugged her knees tighter, her chin resting on them. “It never rains for him.”

Fenris sat next to her. She wouldn’t lean on him, not in this mood, not with their rules, so he leaned against her. She had only a shift of a shirt, and loose breachers, both leaving her skin chilled from dew and wind. He wished he could use the lyrium in his skin for real magic, to heat and warm. But all he had was himself.

“I went to the next town over to look for a cure. Came back just as he died.” Her lips twitched, in a vague, broken imitation of her smile. “I always watch them die.”

“What did he die of?”

“Fever. I think. I’m not a healer.” She curled up more. “Anders would have cured him. F-Father would have been good for Anders. Not like me. H-He wouldn’t have brought Carver along.”

“Hawke.”

“They all left, Fenris.” Her voice cracked. She buried her face in her knees, shoulders heaving with hitching gasps. “What’s so awful about me that everyone has to leave?”

“No.” Panic translated as anger in Fenris’ voice. He grabbed her shoulder and twisted her to face him Without her armor, Hawke felt too small in his grip. She was always bigger than life to him, this burning bright human that could kill Qunari and smile down Templars. None of them could ever touch her. What they did was so much worse. He cradled her close to him. “No, Hawke.”

“I was supposed to protect them. They’re my  _ family _ .”

“You’re my family.” The words tore at his throat with their honesty. “And you’re Varric’s. And Aveline. Isabela.” He didn’t think, but rubbed his hand up and down his back. A half-forgotten melody rang in the very back of his head. He could remember a woman singing, but not the words or the tune. Instead he kept talking. “Tell me about your father. About Fereldan. Touch me, Hawke. Talk to me and touch me.”

Her hand rose, shaking like a baby bird, but landed on his chest. He grabbed it and moved to his neck, her fingers like ice against his skin. He pulled her closer.

“It’s colder there. Far from the sea. We’re in the middle of all this land. Were in the middle.” Her voice was cracked, empty, but she spoke. “Lived in a house only a little bigger than Gamlen’s place, but with  _ land _ . You know the difference.”

He didn’t, not really. He lived in splendor before and then he lived in poverty. A farm, with land he owned, and family he trusted, that he couldn’t know. But he murmured something like an agreement.

“Father picked it out. After the last place. The Chantry was small, no Templars there at the time. We thought we’d be safe.” She swallowed hard. “We would have only last another year. But Father liked it. He liked having land. His hands had calluses from work and he’d rub them against our faces to make us laugh. ‘Feel that?’” Hawke deepened her voice in imitation. “‘Hard work built these hands. Remember that. Magic can’t do this.’ And he’d laugh and rubbed them more against Bethany’s face.”

Fenris moved Hawke’s hand to his cheek. She had calluses, from her staff. Many mages had them in Tevinter, where magic flowed like water from a fountain. But he knew for a fact that sometimes Hawke chopped wood if Bodhen’s back bugged him or clean the house. Maybe it wasn’t just kindness, or Hawke’s eternal need to move. Maybe it was more.

“You never failed him.”

Hawke laughed like a drowning man, watery and choked. She curled up against Fenris, still too cold. He pressed her fingers under his chin then rubbed up and down her arms.

“I did. I let Bethany die. I let Carver die. I was supposed to protect them. I’m  _ Hawke _ .” She kept her head under his chin, leaning in when he tried to pull back. Her hair was soft against his skin, but the silent tears pitted against his armor. “I didn’t realize he was dead until someone called me that. He was Hawke. We were his kids. Then...then I was.”

“Haw—” The word caught in his throat. He knew Hawke’s first name. At first he wanted the distance her last name provided. Then he wanted the distance. Then, when even Varric called her Hawke, though with stars in his eyes and a tone all his own, it felt intimate enough. “Do...Do you want to be called by your first name?”

She shook her head but said nothing. He rubbed her back. He couldn’t read the gravestones, the etchings worn by sea salt and time, and the font too small for him. He looked to the sky and began to count. He knew seasons.

“You met Isabela around this time.”

“What?” She hiccuped through a sob, but pulled back enough for him to see her pale face. He rubbed away some tears, careful of his claws.

“Isabela. You met her around this time. Remember, you met Sebastian and month later and had a party and Isabela asked why she didn’t get a party and you said you didn’t know enough people.”

Hawke blinked. Her lips twitched and she tilted her head slightly into his hand.

“You remember that?”

“I remember everything about you.” It was a painful truth. Memory wasn’t his strong suit, but Hawke seared herself into his mind. Her own separate ritual. But like the very worst of magic, it wasn’t done with intent or purpose, but by accident. Hawke was a strong mage. She casted spells with bright smiles, careless touches, and an endless concern. “You met Varric in the beginning of spring, and went to the Deep Roads at the end.” He recounted all of her meetings, and the anniversaries in between. After a while, she ghosted her hand over his and he took it, twining their fingers together.

“Tell me about meeting you.” When she leaned closer to his chest again, she wasn’t crying. He tucked her head under his chin and told the story, like to a child before bed.

“Not all memories are bad,” Hawke whispered to herself, a finger tracing the design of his armor. “There are good things too.”


	5. Fact #5: Hawke Doesn't Own Fenris

Fenris ran up the steps to Hightown, Varric’s words ringing in his ears.

“Aveline arrested Hawke, elf.”

Fenris had scoffed. Hawke collected loyalties like some women collected jewels. That Aveline, who’d been Hawke’s the longest and loved the brightest, would turn on Hawke for even the law was laughable. But Varric’s hazel eyes glowed with worry and the laugh died in Fenris throat.

What, _what_ , could get Hawke arrested?

He burst through the small side area that was the entirety of the guard’s barracks. Three heads swung to him and two swung away. He wasn’t an unusual sight here, between his occasional visits to Donnic or Aveline and his regular tailings behind Hawke.

Donnic stepped forward now, face scrunched in the tight discomfort of a man forced to talk to a friend as a guard.

“Fenris. This isn’t—”

Fenris was fast, and a killer. Donnic was a good guard but he wasn’t prepared for Fenris quick dart around him and through Aveline’s door.

“—can’t hit one of _my_ men, Hawke!” Aveline yelled. She stood on one side of her desk, Hawke on the other. The women leaned close to each other, both full in rage. The male guard a head taller than them both stood small and pale in the corner. On his cheek, a bruise bloomed beautifully.

“Then you need to lead less prejudiced, ignorant, jack _asses_ —”

“Hawke.” Fenris’ voice shocked him. Strong and loud, and filling the room with a sense of command. Aveline turned, fire in her eyes at anyone trying to wrest control from her in _this_ space, but Hawke jumped then cowed as soon as she saw him. Red stained her cheeks. “What is going on?”

Hawke wouldn’t meet his eyes, but turned, suddenly fascinated, to the ceiling.

“I was just doing my job.” The guard piped up in a voice whining with it’s countless repeat.

“If that’s your job then I want my taxes back,” Hawke muttered.

“Enough, Hawke.” Aveline crossed her arms over her chest but gave Fenris a long look. The elf resisted the urge to squirm or drop into slave like blankness. Finally Aveline sighed. She saved to Donnic, hoving behind Fenris. “It involves you, might as well tell you. There have been...complaints.”

“Complaints.” Now Fenris did drop into slave neutral, but with a growl hinting in the word. Hawke’s cheeks grew redder and she glared at the ceiling.

“Apparently, some people think you’ve been...stalking at weird hours of the night.”

Fenris blinked deliberately, slow and careful. He’d been late returning home, so late it was early some nights, more often than not. Hawke invited him over for dinner. She invited him other places. It made him feel...normal. Even slipping out before dawn made him feel normal. He was a man, leaving his lover, and sneaking home before the sun saw him.

“I do not see what this has to do with Hawke.”

“The guard,” Aveline paused to glare at the man, “decided to inform Hawke instead of yourself.”

“Fenris is _not_ mine.” Hawke lowered her chin, hands shaking with a rage Fenris wasn’t used to seeing in Hawke. “And I won’t have people running around and saying he is. Fenris is a _free man_ and he follows me because he wishes it and no other reason.”

“And you hit him,” Aveline said dryly.

“I didn’t like his language.”

“Guardsman.” The redhead turned to the poor sod. “What did you say?”

The man squirmed. He glanced to Hawke, then Fenris and knew he had no help in those quarters.

“I, uh, merely asked that the, uh, Champion, um.”

“To keep my ‘knife ear’ on a shorter leash.” Hawke snarled the ugly words. Fenris blinked, but otherwise, had no reaction. They were words he expected, had heard himself, spoken just loud enough for him to overhear. Fenris walked a slave’s distance from Hawke. He attacked on Hawke’s orders. He was, Fenris knew, Hawke’s.

Everyone knew that, except (and this was the shock) Hawke herself.

“And you hit him.” Aveline raised an eyebrow.

“What did you expect me to do? He called Fenris a knife ear. I won’t let anyone insult him.” Hawke bristled with protective rage and despite the situation, a smile tugged at Fenris’ lips.

“Why didn’t you take this to me, Guardsman? I could have forwarded the complaints.”

Fenris never listened when Aveline, or sometimes Donnic, complained to him. What the Hightown busybodies thought about him were their own problems. Only one person owned his mansion, and that man was dead.

“...nevergoesanywhere,” the man muttered.

“What was that?”

The guard shifted his weight. He glared down at the ground, one hand raising up to rub his bruise. At some point, this became a trial he hadn’t agreed to.

“When we make complaints about the kni-- _elves_ or Hawke, it never goes anywhere….Ser.”

“It does. I forward the complaints to the interested party.”

“We just don’t listen.” Hawke’s smile was back, wide and arrogant. You’d never know she was ever mad. She crossed the room and held out a hand. Fenris took it, twining their fingers together. “Not Aveline’s fault.”

“It makes the, uh, nobles and such, you know, the ones paying our salaries feel ignored.”

“If they have complaints, they can take it to me directly. Maker knows enough do. It is not your job to work directly for the nobles. You work for me. You follow my chain of command.”

“But, Ser, the nobles—”

“You care an awful lot about the opinions of some stuffed shirts.” Aveline’s face became granite. The guard flinched. Hawke snickered audibly, and tugged at Fenris’ hand.

“Come on, I think it’s best if we’re not here for this.”

“We’re not done yet, Hawke.” Aveline shot out, but she didn’t stop them leaving. Hawke threw up a hand in acknowledgement and Fenris snickered this time. Hawke squeezed his hand at the sound. He pulled her fingers up to his lips as they walked out of the barracks. Hawke’s eyes dilated and pride warmed Fenris’ heart.

They said nothing until they emerged from the Keep, hands still entwined, and walking naturally in step.

“You don’t need to do that, Hawke,” he said after they were far enough from the mess. “I’d rather not be scared of you getting arrested.”

“I would have paid a fine, done some chores for Aveline tops.” Hawke shrugged away the danger to herself, as she always did. “Besides, even if I did, it’d be worth it.”

“Hawke. It would not.”

They twined their way through Hightown. Fenris didn’t ask where they were going, he didn’t have to. Varric was at the Hanged Man.

“If you felt better, more secure, happier…” Hawke shrugged again. Her fingers held on tighter, like she was afraid he’d slip free.

“Hawke, I am…” He couldn’t make himself say the words, happy, secure. He didn’t know. He really didn’t know what that felt like. Hawke made him feel...warm. Heat of passion. Warmth of contentment. A steady glow that, for once, everything was okay. Was that happy? Was that security?

When he went to sleep at night, he knew he’d be returning to the same bed the next night. When he said good bye to Hawke, he knew he’d say hello again. Isabela, Aveline, Donnic, Varric. All of them people he knew, in his heart, would be there if he needed them. But what did the words mean?

Fenris was no good with words. Slaves never were. So instead, he squeezed her hand.

Hawke misread him.

“I don’t want you to feel like you felt before,” she turned away from him, to look at the stalls of the market supposedly, but Hawke hated talking feelings.

“Before?”

“I did it wrong the first time. I see that. You came to me, _to me_ , ready. I’m so wrong for you, everything you should hate. Human and noble and magic. I’m a free mage. And I’ve always been free. But you still.” She stopped when Fenris tugged at her arm. They stood in the center of the market, but Fenris never cared for the eyes of strangers. He pulled Hawke to him.

“No.” It escaped as a growl, when she deserved a whisper. The claws on his armor skimmed against her scalp when she deserved a caress. “No, Hawke. It was me.”

“Fenris.” She laughed. It was watery but she managed it anyway. She leaned against his clawed hand, nuzzled against his palm when he didn’t move away. She never minded the metal he needed to protect him. Never cared that he said all the wrong words, knew all the wrong pauses. “It wasn’t all you. I didn’t do a single thing right that night. I just...I _wanted_ you. So badly.”

“Why?” That was the crux of this relationship. The utter confusion he felt since she first smirked at him and said Danarius’ murder would be the waste of a perfectly handsome elf.

“Oh Maker, so many reasons.” She laughed but when he gazed into her eyes they were desperate. “You’re so smart and yourself. You don’t let anyone touch you without your permission. You’re funny when you’re relaxed and kind when no one’s looking. More.” Her teeth found her bottom lip. She hesitated. Around them the market buzzed, but they might as well be alone for all the attention either of them gave. “You’re so strong. And you hate mages so much. Someone needs to be able to put me down. If I slip up. I used to have my dad, then Carver and now…” She looked up at him, eyes wet and wide and waiting. Fenris looked down.

She liked him because he could kill her. She liked him because he _would_ kill her. Blood mage or abomination, he wouldn’t care. If she ever chose herself over everyone else…

That should disgust him. Should anger him. That she’d put that on his shoulders.

But he knew Hawke. He’d seen her laugh at demons, and spit at blood magic. She was a strong mage, who never faltered.

And she trusted _him_ to be there if she did.

“Hawke.” He leaned in. She tilted her chin up and waited. She always waited for him. But he didn’t kiss her. The first time he said this, he wanted it to be just for her. Against her lips, barely brushing, he whispered. “I am yours.”

For a second, Hawke did nothing. Then jolted as the words made it to her brain. Then, for the first time since the first time, she kissed him. Her hands dove into his hair and she kissed, with teeth and tongue and possession. It was like the first kiss, a battle of dominance that neither won. When Hawke broke away, she panted through a laugh.

“You _never_ stop surprising me, Fenris.”

“Then we’re equal.”

“We’re _always_ equals.”

Fenris smiled, slow but large. Hawke stared at him blankly for a second. Then her hand shot out and snagged a passing by youngster. She held up a sovereign.

“Do me a favor, go tell Varric at the Hanged Man that Hawke is fine. She and Fenris just had to go home early. Got that?”

The kid eyed the fat gold coin hungrily and nodded. He reached for it but Hawke pulled it back.

“What do I want you to say?”

“Tell Varric at the ‘anged Man ‘awke is fine. She and Fenris went home early,” he recited dutifully. Hawke smiled and dropped the coin in his hand.

“Good.” She ruffled the boy’s hair and shoved him off. “He’ll go straight there. I don’t want Varric to worry.”

“Of course, Hawke.”

She offered her hand again. Fenris took it, holding tight. His hand to hold, always offered and never forced.

“Fenris?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, too.”

They barely made it to her home after that. Fenris was happy. Or if he wasn’t, he didn’t need happiness.

Fenris had Hawke.

“I am yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done. I'm so glad this fic ended with laughing. This is my first completed multipart fanfic and I hope everyone enjoyed themselves. Thanks for the kudos and comments!


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